


Mornings Aren't For Everyone

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Stiles is not a morning person, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:17:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek can only stare in horrified fascination because it's like someone drew a caricature of Monday mornings and this person sprang off the canvas in full, technicolor life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mornings Aren't For Everyone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devilscut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilscut/gifts).



> For devilscut, who is ridiculously talented, incredibly thoughtful, generous, and one of the kindest, most welcoming people in fandom. I appreciate you more than you know.
> 
> My first coffee shop AU.

The electronic bell on the door lets out its dying frog sound—Derek had assumed that it was running low on batteries when he first started working at the shop, but two months on and it still makes that sound. He looks up, blinks twice, and sidles sideways toward the register. He's the only one out front now that the first rush has passed, and the guy who just came in looks like he escaped from some mental ward.

His hair is sticking out all over the place on one side and flattened to his skull in a haphazard sort of cowlick on the other. His face has a long crease mark in one cheek that cuts perfectly between two moles like it was done on purpose. His lips are pale, blanched of color, chapped. But it's his eyes that are truly disturbing.

They're a golden brown color that almost glows in the warm light of the coffee shop, but they're rolling in their sockets as the man stumbles to the counter. The whites of his eyes are so red, Derek finds himself blinking in sympathy. His eyelashes are glued together in clumps from morning eye crust, and even his eyebrows are sticking up all over the place.

Derek can only stare in horrified fascination because it's like someone drew a caricature of Monday mornings and this person sprang off the canvas in full, technicolor life. 

The man's hands are curled in against his chest and as his eyes finally focus on Derek—and Derek can literally _see_ his eyes focusing—he lets out a choked sob and uncurls them. Crumpled bills spill onto the counter.

Hesitant, not wanting to spook the man into some kind of crazed murdering spree, Derek makes his voice as soothing as possible and says, "Would you like a coffee?"

Actual tears form in those eyes, and the man's lips tremble before he dips his head in a nod. "Big," he says, so beseeching that it makes Derek stumble back a step. His voice sounds like the aural equivalent of crunching gravel and fingernails on a chalkboard. "With the...the...wshhhhh."

Derek nods slowly. "You want a latté?"

The man slumps against the counter with another choked sob, flattening his body down until his cheek is smushed against the display of stale, prepackaged cookies no one ever buys. 

Deciding not to press his luck, Derek sets about making a very basic latté. Then, side-eying the man who appears to have fallen asleep half-standing, he adds another shot of espresso.

When it's done, he gently shakes the man by the shoulder, helps him wrap his hand around the cup, and watches, fascinated all over again, as the man brings the cup to his lips with a trembling hand. The gulp he takes makes Derek wince for the tastebuds he likely just burnt off his tongue, but then he looks at Derek and...

...Derek was a soldier during wartime, okay? He's seen little kids look at him in awe and old, grandmotherly types have, more than once, stopped him in the airport or on the street just to kiss his cheek with tears in their eyes. He knows what it's like to have someone look at you like you're a hero.

This guy?

He's looking at Derek like he's the second coming of Jesus.

Flushing, Derek turns away to wipe down the machines again, just to give his hands something to do. He hears the door bell croak and turns to see the man half-caught in the barely opened door before he falls out of it, ripping the pocket off his sweats in the process.

It's the most surreal encounter of Derek's life. 

\----

After that, the guy comes in every morning, and their routine no longer requires words. In fact, by Friday, Derek is finishing the latté as the guy smacks face first into the glass door. Derek winces.

If he thought the guy had been out of it before, he was mistaken. He's barely ambulatory today. 

Derek picks up the latté and hurries around the counter to grab the guy before he falls into the pastry case. Shoring him up on one side, Derek helps him into a seat beside the window and then just lifts the cup to the guy's mouth, spilling a few drops down the guy's chin in his attempt to be helpful. It seems to work, though. A few swallows later and the guy seems to remember what function his hands perform. 

He lifts them, wraps them around the cup like it's a priceless vase, and then does the grateful, you-are-my-savior eyes at Derek. It's...okay, it's almost cute. 

Somehow in the last week, Derek has developed a soft spot for this obviously homeless guy with massive social issues. Shaking his head fondly, he watches for a few more minutes to make sure the guy doesn't just upend the cup of steaming liquid over his face, then goes back to work.

When he checks the table later, there's a ten dollar bill wadded up in the middle of it.

\----

Derek's in the back, about to get off shift, when the door bell goes off. In fact, Isaac's already at the register, gearing up for the lunch rush, and Derek's half-out of his apron when the croak alerts them to the customer.

Derek looks through the round window that separates the kitchen from the public area and stares. It's...no. Just. No way. That is not Obviously Homeless Guy that he told Erica about _just this morning_ in hopes she would help him if he came in on the weekend while she's on morning shift. 

It sort of looks like Obviously Homeless Guy, if you have a really good imagination and an advanced degree in photoshop. He's got the same moles, and the same colored eyes, but this guy? This guy is the total opposite of Obviously Homeless Guy.

He's dressed in a chocolate-colored, slim-fitting, tailored suit that very likely cost more than Derek's monthly rent. He's got on shoes that have an actual shine, his lips are flushed a healthy pink, and his hair looks like it's been professionally styled. His eyes sparkle with life and energy and there's a goddamn bounce in his step.

The guy sees Isaac and he pulls up short, head tilting in confusion before he looks around the shop, nods slowly to himself, and approaches the register. Derek can't hear what's being said, but he pushes open the door hesitantly when Isaac turns and waves at him.

The guy's entire face lights up when Derek shoulders through the door, and that's when he knows. Yep. This is the guy he's been pouring coffee into all week. Because that look is the same one he gets every morning when Obviously Homele—err, whoever this guy is, tastes that first rush of caffeine.

"Oh my god, it's you," the guy breathes, his smile cutting grooves in his cheeks it's so wide. "I thought for a second I'd dreamed you up or something."

"Uh," Derek says, employing the exquisite conversational skills he's best known for.

"Oh, um, yeah. Hi." The guy stretches his hand over the counter, bright eyes imploring Derek to reciprocate.

So he does. Because _his life_ is surreal now, apparently.

"I'm Stiles," the guy says, laughter ringing through his voice even though he's not _actually_ laughing. Like he's just the happiest fucker on the planet to be introducing himself to Derek.

Derek just holds his hand, not responding until Isaac clears his throat, loudly and pointedly. "Oh. Right. I'm Derek."

The guy, Stiles, squeezes his hand and then, seemingly reluctant, releases it. "Sorry to bother you at work, I just...I needed to come by when I was lucid to find out who my angel of mercy was."

Derek feels his neck heat up, and he shrugs awkwardly. It's easier to deal with Stiles when he's stumbling around the shop, preverbal, with crumpled up money falling out of his hands. "Just doing my job," he mutters, ducking his head.

Stiles nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and still somehow looking like a male model in a GQ photo shoot. He stares at Derek for a few seconds longer before shaking his head with a small twist of his lips and turning toward the door. When he lifts one hand from his pockets to push it open, he stops and turns back to Derek and Isaac, who are both watching him avidly. 

Isaac because he's a nosy fucker, and Derek because he still can't quite reconcile Ridiculously Attractive Stiles with Obviously Homeless Guy in his head. 

"Look, I..." Stiles bites his lip, then plunges on. "I just moved here. New to the neighborhood and all that." His hand carves through the air in an elegant gesture obviously meant to indicate the buildings around them. "I was hoping to maybe take you to dinner? I mean. Well. You've seen me at my worst, right? If that didn't scare you into moving out of state, I don't know what would. So. Dinner?" When he stops speaking, his eyes go wide and pleading, like a freaking deer's or something.

Since Derek's still just staring at Stiles, Isaac groans dramatically and says, "Yeah, dude. He's totally down with dinner. He's on early shift tonight at the Blue Rooster, but he's miraculously free tomorrow night until 9:30. He'll meet you here at 5."

Derek rolls his eyes, elbowing Isaac in the ribs. "Yeah, sorry. What he said. Uh, I'm not really...a suit and tie guy." He makes vague gestures toward what Stiles is wearing, and then shrugs apologetically. 

Stiles looks down at himself, then makes a face. "Trust me, if I didn't have to wear them to the office, I wouldn't be either. Jeans and a t-shirt and that diner on the corner with the merengue that looks like it defies gravity?" he suggests, sounding hopeful.

Shaking himself, Derek throws his apron in Isaac's face and comes around the counter so they can discuss their plans more privately. "I think I can handle that."

As he approaches, he can see Stiles' gaze crawling down his body. He realizes it's the first time Stiles has seen him when he wasn't either wearing his apron, or hidden behind the counter. His breath catches in his throat and he finds himself hoping, stupidly, that Stiles likes what he sees.

The hint of red that tints Stiles' ears when his eyes finally meet Derek's says he does.

"So. Are you doing anything right now?" Stiles asks, a slow blink fanning his lashes over his cheeks.

Distracted by the sight, Derek doesn't even consider lying. "Nope. Just getting off work."

That bright, joyful smile is back, and Stiles leans toward Derek when he asks, "Then may I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"Yeah," Derek says, just to watch Stiles' eyes shine with happiness. It might be too early to even consider it, but he thinks he can put up with a lot worse than early-morning Stiles if he's also got this version to look forward to.

Besides. He got a really nice French press from Laura for Christmas. 

 

 

 

(They use the French press. A lot.)


End file.
